


A Certain Type of Story

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [39]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-The Final Problem, Scars, Sherlock's curls make great stims, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and also we encourage emotional intelligence and the setting of boundaries, they are a family, they're cute okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Rosie likes to play with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock indulges her. Children are curious by nature, so it's only natural when Rosie finds a scar on Sherlock's neck that she has questions.
Relationships: John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 7
Kudos: 316





	A Certain Type of Story

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to summary okay let me live

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars.”

* * *

“I expected this fascination would disappear once she reached this age,” Sherlock mutters, wincing as Rosie’s fingers snag a tangle. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

John glances at the pair of them. Sherlock sits petulantly in front of the couch, curled up with his hands in the familiar ‘deduction’ pose with Rosie standing behind him on the couch. She woke up this morning with the need to ‘do something with her hands.’ And of course, Sherlock, with his habit of remaining absolutely still in one place for hours on end, offered the perfect solution.

“I don’t understand what’s so interesting about it.”

“It’s fluffy,” Rosie says, reaching for the comb, “and it’s black.”

“And what is it about those two qualities that make my hair such an interesting plaything?”

Rosie shrugs. “I like it.”

“And that’s all that matters,” John smiles over the rim of his teacup, “isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glances at him, keeping his head still for Rosie. John raises an eyebrow. They both know Sherlock’s bluster is mostly for appearance’s sake.

Sherlock sighs, making a show of slumping his shoulder in defeat and giving Rosie free rein to do as she pleases. Rosie claps her hands in delight and buries her fingers in the curls. John chuckles to himself. For someone who puts on this facade of not wanting any part of Rosie playing with his hair, Sherlock looks remarkably pleased with the scritchings on his scalp.

Rosie seems to have noticed this as well.

“Papa, I don’t understand.”

Sherlock’s head lolls against Rosie’s stomach, almost blocking her whole body. “What don’t you understand?”

“You like this too.”

Sherlock grins lazily, stretching his arms and guiding Rosie’s hands back to his hair.

“You’re strange.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “and so are you.”

“I like being strange,” Rosie announces, sparking a laugh from Sherlock.

“Well, good.” Sherlock gives her hand a squeeze. “Normal is boring.”

“I don’t like boring.”

“Nor should you.”

John smiles, going back to the novel in front of him. He misses mornings like this when they’re all running around frantically, trying to get Rosie to school, Sherlock to the case, him to the surgery. Rarely do their schedules line up enough for them to snatch these little moments. The flat never feels cold when all three of them are inside.

“Tip your head forward, Papa, I can’t get to this part.”

“You know that’s his favorite,” John says, taking a sip of tea.

“I know.”

“Are you two conspiring against me,” Sherlock asks. John hides a smirk at how sluggish his voice sounds. “Should I be worried about you using this against me?”

“What would we use it for, Papa?”

“Oh, any number of things.”

“Can I use it to get ice cream?”

“Probably.”

“Stay up later?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll simply fall asleep on top of you and then you’ll have nowhere to go so you might as well sleep.”

“Papa!”

“It’s a very simple solution, if you are wrapped up in the arms of someone who makes you feel safe, given the levels of light and the time of day, you will fall asleep.”

“Have you been experimenting on me?”

“ _On_ you?” John hears Sherlock shift. “Never, my dear Watson. _With_ you, perhaps.”

“But Dada said you’re not allowed to do things without my permit—perm—“

“‘Permission?’”

“Permission.”

“It’s less of an experiment, more a collection of observations. Though if you were _willing_ to subject yourself to an experiment—“

“Dada also said no experiments after tea.”

“What? Well, now that really is ridiculous, John.”

“If I don’t stop you two at some point, you’ll work through the night.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

Rosie giggles when Sherlock sticks his tongue to at John. John shakes his head. “Children, the both of you.”

“It’s far more fun.”

“Dada, Papa thinks I’m more fun than you.”

“Papa is allowed to think whatever he wants.”

“So you think I’m more fun than you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

It’s worth it for Sherlock’s deep chuckles and Rosie’s high pitched giggles. The three of them lapse back into silence, the quiet _thwip_ of John turning the pages and the occasional swish of the comb through Sherlock’s hair. Outside, a cab drives by.

“Papa?”

The hint of uncertainty in Rosie’s voice sharpens John’s ears. The fabric rustles as Sherlock reaches back to touch Rosie’s hand.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Why do you have this line on your neck?”

_Excuse me a what?_

John sets down his novel, turning to see Sherlock’s head bowed, Rosie, brushing away the curls to frown at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“It’s a scar,” Sherlock explains patiently, “that’s all.”

Rosie, still frowning, runs a finger over the scar. She doesn’t notice the way Sherlock’s hands shudder.  
  
“But how did it get here?”

Sherlock’s head raises a little, just enough to catch John’s eye. They both know they hate keeping secrets from Rosie, but this…

“Rosie,” John calls, “remember what we said about scars?”

Rosie nods. “They all have stories.”

“And what do we say about people’s stories?”

Rosie’s hands leave Sherlock’s neck. She crouches down and wraps her little arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “That we can’t tell them when to tell us.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock murmurs, turning his head to press his cheek to Rosie’s. “I will tell you, one day, but not today.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you go get your hat and we’ll go for a walk? Leave Dada to his reading?”

Rosie bustles off to her room. They watch her go, Sherlock standing up and coming over to John.

John pulls Sherlock into a quick hug, trying to reassure him that he’s here now, he’s not going anywhere. He still remembers that first awful day where Sherlock refused to go to a hospital for a checkup, instead having John make sure he was alright. He remembers running his fingers over every single scar, everything Sherlock had to endure in those two years.

“If I could,” John had murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder, “I would kiss away all of your scars.”

He repeats those words now, lips almost brushing the edge of the scar Rosie noticed.

“I know,” Sherlock says back, “but you needn’t.”

John knows. He needn’t. He has Sherlock now, Sherlock has them now. They made it. It’s alright.

Rosie comes bounding back in, Sherlock hoisting her up onto his hip so she can join the hug.

“Can we go now?”

“Of course.” Sherlock sets her down, pausing. “Rosie, I do remember saying to get _your_ hat.”

The deerstalker is nowhere near small enough. Rosie keeps having to push it up out of her face. “But I like this one.”

John smiles. “Well, then you can wear it.”

“John!”

“Unless _you_ want to wear it instead?” John crouches, stage whispering to Rosie. “That’s Papa’s favorite hat.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“He wears it when he wants to feel special.”

“No, I don’t!”

Rosie giggles. “Then we’ll have to match!”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock says, turning to John, “why don’t we _all_ match?”

“Weren’t you two going somewhere?”

Sherlock scoops Rosie into his arms, grabbing his coat and pulling it on absentmindedly as the two of them make their way to the door. John watches them go with a smile.

If it’s all the same, he’d much rather be a part of _this_ sort of story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine.
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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